“He’s laughing at us,” a street-hardened, swarthy woman said as she argued with a thin, nervous-looking officer. Everyone but Glenn and I were standing, and I felt like I was at the bottom of a well.

“Mr. Kalamack isn’t the witch hunter,” the man protested in a nasally voice. “He gives more to Cincinnati than Santa Claus.”

“That fits the profile,” Dunlop butted in. “You’ve seen the reports. Whoever is doing this is certifiable. Twin lives, probably a schizophrenic.”

There was a soft murmur from the surrounding officers as the arguments swirled down to just this one. For what it was worth, I agreed with Dunlop. Whoever was doing this was an itsy-bitsy-skitzy. Trent filled that description nicely.

The nervous man straightened, gaze darting about the room for support. “Okay, the murderer is mental, yes,” he admitted in an irritating whine. “But I’ve met Mr. Kalamack. The man is no more a murderer than my mother is.”

I flipped to the coroner’s report, learning that our Olympic swimmer had indeed died in his bathtub, but that it had been full of witch blood. A bad feeling started to push out the horror. It takes a lot of blood to fill a bathtub. A lot more than one person has; more like two dozen. Where had it all come from? A vampire wouldn’t have wasted it like that.

The discussion concerning the thin cop’s mother became loud, and I wondered if I should tell them about benevolent Mr. Kalamack killing his lead geneticist and blaming it on a bee sting. Nice, neat, and tidy. Murder without hardly lifting a hand. Trent had given the widowed wife and orphaned fifteen-year-old-girl the upgraded benefits package and an anonymous, full university scholarship.

“Stop thinking with your wallet, Lewis,” Dunlop said, swinging his ample middle around aggressively. “Just because the man gives to the FIB charity auction, that doesn’t make him a saint. I say that makes him more suspicious. We don’t even know if he’s human.”

Glenn flicked a glance at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Dunlop started, clearly remembering I was here. “Absolutely nothing!” he said loudly, as if the volume of his voice could erase the hidden, underlying racial slur. “But the man has something to hide.”

I silently agreed, starting to like the overweight cop despite his lack of tact.

The officers clustered at the door looked over their shoulders into the open offices. They exchanged looks and backed up. One of them said, “Afternoon, Captain,” as he ducked out of the way, and I wasn’t surprised when Edden’s squat bulk replaced theirs in the doorframe.

“What is going on?” he said, pushing his round-framed glasses back up his nose.

Another FIB officer made a silent farewell to me and slipped out.

“Hi, Edden,” I said, not getting up from my swivel chair.